


Reparations

by BelladonnaWyck, raiast



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Blood, Bottom Will Graham, Dirty Talk, Feral murder boys being feral, Fucking with clothes still on, Handcuffs, Hannibal has a big dick pass it on, M/M, Murder Talk, Rough Sex, Season 2 Canon Divergence, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will is a size queen even though he pretends not to be impressed, murder as foreplay, sappy cannibals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaWyck/pseuds/BelladonnaWyck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast
Summary: Five minutes after Will is released from his cell in the bowels of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Jack Crawford is before him once more.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 472





	Reparations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zillabean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillabean/gifts).



> Thank you to Zillabean for such an amazing prompt! Just full on feral Hannibal and sassy Will enjoying seeing more of his monsters cruder side!

Five minutes after Will is released from his cell in the bowels of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Jack Crawford is before him once more. He doesn’t offer an apology so much as a reluctant admission of misjudgement and a ride far, far away. Personally, Will would rather have the hasty escape from Chilton than some half-baked, tearful mollification, so he walks silently to the parking lot and climbs into Jack’s SUV without making any kind of fuss.

Three hours and eighteen minutes after Will is released, Will has met Miriam Lass, peered down the hole that she peered up out of not so long ago and watched as his last hope of her identifying the Ripper is dashed. It’s then that his little boat on the water - once safe, but such no more - comes into view. Thirty-three minutes after that, he’s surrounded by a flurry of wet noses and thrashing tails, his pack eager to greet their alpha, to welcome him back into the fold and cover him in a scent that isn’t  _ damp _ and  _ sterile _ and  _ wrong. _

It only takes another one hundred and twenty seconds for Will to gravely offend Alana Bloom - an impressively short amount of time, even for someone such as him - and another ninety seconds besides before he is wholly and blessedly  _ alone. _

Six hours later, Will waits in the still darkness of a room too familiar and too easily missed. He stares at the faint outline of a scandalous painting that sits poignantly and proudly above an unlit fireplace, and then treks through the pale moonlight spilling through the garden doors to a wall teeming with life. He wonders, as he idly awaits his prey, if the herb garden might be the most human part of the cold and controlled facade that is Hannibal Lecter’s life. Five minutes after that thought - after Will forcibly reminds himself that he’s not here to analyze Hannibal Lecter, that he doesn’t  _ care - _ Hannibal returns home, trekking dutifully and predictably to his kitchen, and Will descends upon him.

He’s drawn closer and closer still, far less distance than he swore to himself he ever cared to have between them again, and raises the pistol in his clenching hand high to give himself a stopping point, some physical barrier that he truly couldn’t cross. He tells himself he doesn’t want to get any closer than arm’s length anyways. 

He leaves without pulling the trigger and doesn’t know why. If there’s a bitter taste in his mouth and his stomach is sour and heavy, he tells himself he doesn’t know why that might be either.

\---

Thursday evening, 7:30 PM, happens to fall precisely fifty-eight hours after his release from the BSHCI. He’s shaved in the last forty-seven hours since seeing Hannibal, as well as gotten a haircut, bought a new pair of charcoal slacks - the nice pair he had  _ before _ his imprisonment, before  _ Hannibal, _ fit just fine, but now he doesn’t have a belt small enough to keep them snug around his gaunt waist - and dug the old iron out of his hallway closet. The air smells hot as the dust burns off the oft unused appliance, and Will hates that it’s one more physical sensation to remind him that he’s doing something out of the ordinary, out of character, and all for a man he wants _ to kill. _

He ignores the small, persistent part of himself that pipes up at the contemplation, reminding him that two days prior he had a  _ loaded gun _ to said man’s head and all he could think about was how happy he was that his previous attempt by proxy had failed, how relieved and comforted he was to see his sharp, shrewd face, even as his insufferable tongue spat silver in a coy attempt to dig his claws into Will’s curiosity and preserve his life, if even only for a short while.

He turns when the door swings open, bitter relief flooding him once more as the object of his intense hatred, his dark adoration, his consuming  _ obsession _ fills his vision once more. It’s been a long two days of contemplating this moment, of deciding it was madness even as he took proactive steps to bring it to fruition, and Will feels a curious  _ loosening _ of the knotted pit his stomach had contorted into many months ago. 

“Expecting anyone?” Will asks in his best affectation of nonchalance as he saunters past the rather pleasantly surprised psychiatrist and ambles further into the room.

“Only you.” Arrogant, smug; as though he somehow knew Will would be back, was assured of it.

“You kept my time slot open.” Intentional. Will wonders - briefly, as he knows now that allowing his mind to wander in the presence of Hannibal Lecter is a  _ Very Bad Idea - _ how many times the killer before him sat in this very room at this very time every week, either amused with himself at where the occupant of the other chair currently was, or perhaps even lamenting it.

“It only seemed appropriate. I must admit, while I had considered the likelihood of your returning to my office after your release, I hadn’t quite expected it to be so soon. Especially considering our last interaction included a loaded firearm.”

“So certain it was loaded?” Will’s lips twist into a bitter smirk at Hannibal’s flat stare, his amusement equally bitter on his tongue. “No firearm tonight,” Will informs him, hands spread out from his body and fingers splayed wide as though to prove it. “No weapon at all.” He heaves a sigh, jaw drawn tight as his eyes are drawn to every corner of the room that doesn’t contain Hannibal Lecter. “I need to deal with you. And my feelings about you. I think that would best be done in therapy.”

“Therapy is an excellent resource to work through problems; to find solutions for those which can be solved and acceptance for those which cannot,” Hannibal agrees, and Will tracks him from the corner of his eye as he strides with purpose to the set of chairs between them. “Tell me, Will,” he adds after he’s settled in his chair, one leg crossed over the other and steepled hands resting on his knee, “Which sort of problem do you feel  _ I _ am?”

Will swallows back his amused snort and stares placidly at the killer before him. He surprises himself by taking pity on him - if the doctor couldn’t find a less hamfisted way to ask or even wait a full five minutes after Will’s announcement he’s obviously desperate to know. “The inescapable sort. I just want to be left alone, but I realize that can never happen. I set myself on a certain path when I walked out of my classroom and followed Jack to Minnesota, and now I fear there’s no stepping off it. I’ll never be anything other than Jack’s bloodhound. Alana’s charity case. ... _ Your _ plaything.”

Hannibal looks like he might argue that last, but Will’s not in the mood for his placating bullshit at the moment, so he continues on before the devil’s silver tongue can twist its way into Will’s mind once again. “I could run, I suppose. Leave it all behind and start over somewhere else. Somewhere none of them could find me. But you would, wouldn’t you, Doctor? I can feel the tether that binds us in my gut, wrapped around my insides and pulling tighter, strangling them every time I stray too far. Maybe you’d give me a bit of time, but in the end you’d always follow it right to me, wouldn’t you?”

“I missed you while you were away, Will.” 

It’s as good a confirmation as any, and Will’s mouth twists into something bitter at the pretty way he says it.  _ While you were away. _ Like Will was overseas on active duty, or on an extended vacation. Not locked in a hellhole of Hannibal Lecter’s own making. He swallows down the frustrated scream that lodges in his throat, desperate to claw its way into existence. Hates that when he speaks again, the both of them can hear it in his strained voice. “What do you want with me?”

“I’d like very much for us to be friends again, Will. And I believe you desire the same. Less than seventy-two hours a free man and here you are before me for the second time. Tell me, does friendship still feel lightyears away?” When Will’s response is stony silence, save for the grinding of his teeth, Hannibal continues. “I understand you feel wronged by me. It would be beneficial for the both of us if you could work through that anger and release it.”

Will gives an unamused huff. “Let it go?” He snipes back sarcastically.

“If you gave me a way to make reparations, do you think I would deny you what you ask? Tell me what I can do to bring friendship a little closer.”

Will wants to tell him that friendship is impossible, that the only reason they were even  _ vaguely _ that before was because Will was quite literally out of his mind. He wants to demand he turn back time, undo it all, but knows with a sick sense of dread he can never unlearn the things he discovered about himself while he was locked away, so what would be the point? 

He wants to demand the killer turn himself in, admit to everyone what Will knows about him already, so that he might serve his penance locked in a cage, alone and loathed, just like Will had been. He nearly suggests it, but doesn’t. Hannibal’s right in one respect, at least; Will could be anywhere in the world in the three days he’s had outside the BSHCI, but here he is, standing in Hannibal Lecter’s goddamn office.  _ Again. _ He’s not so sure his feet wouldn’t eventually take him to wherever Hannibal is, and he’s not ready to face what it would really mean, not ready to accept that truth about himself.

In the end, he ignores the question. He has no earthly idea what Hannibal could do to make things right between them, but he’s oddly certain he would be successful, and Will’s not ready for that, either.

\---

Two weeks after Will resumes his therapy - the both of them still cling to the mundane euphemism, ignoring the fact no money is exchanging hands and that their most frequent topic of conversation would likely be frowned upon by whatever board of psychiatrists decides what proper doctor-patient conduct to be - he receives a call from Jack.

The last crime scene Will attended saw him muzzled and strapped down like a rabid dog, his jaw still aching as he studied the dissection of someone that might have once been somewhat of a friend to him. He’s relieved when this one is a simple case of girl-in-horse, and doesn’t involve straightjackets, armed transport or Freddie Lounds.

He sees himself in Peter Bernardone, and the edges of a too-familiar shadow in Clark Ingram. He believes Hannibal when the doctor tells him killing Ingram won’t feel like killing  _ him, _ but that doesn’t stop Will resenting him all the same when Hannibal interferes and stops the hammer from falling. 

He feels like he should have done more to help Peter, but then, Will can’t even help  _ himself, _ so in the end he’s not very surprised when his paltry attempts fail.

\---

Will was fairly certain Randall Tier was their guy as soon as Hannibal pointed them in his direction; any lingering doubt vanishes moments after meeting him. Will isn’t surprised to see himself in Randall, and wonders if he looks just as pathetic to Hannibal as Randall does to him. As soon as Tier proclaims Hannibal helped him, that he no longer suffers with the dark urges of his youth, Will knows he’s lying. Knows there’s a very good chance the same lie might one day leave his own lips.

It takes less than three minutes to kill Randall Tier, fifty-seven seconds of which Hannibal’s bloodied, gasping,  _ smiling _ face beckons him on with an arrogant pride that’s both for himself and for Will. There’s little traffic to contend with this late at night, and sixty-four minutes later, Randall is laid out across the polished wood of Hannibal’s dining table. He stares at the limp body while he awaits his monster and tries not to liken the scene to a cat bringing a gift to its master after a successful hunt.

Will waits in the dark for fourteen minutes before Hannibal steps into the room and stills completely - the way he does when he’s rarely taken off guard. He takes in the scene before him and then raises his gaze to Will, and Will’s blood boils with the surprised pleasure pouring off the killer like heat waves.

“You ask how you can make reparations for all the shit you put me through, and then send a killer to my door?”

Hannibal is, infuriatingly and unsurprisingly, nonplussed by the accusation. “I sent you a gift,” he corrects, stepping around the table and slowly closer to where Will stalks the other end. “A gift well-received,” he points out with a nod toward Randall Tier’s lifeless form. “One would think that might put us back on better footing.”

Will laughs, and keeps laughing until his lashes grow wet with moisture and his vision blurs enough that the image of Hannibal he sees is distorted through a salted-film. The man grows taller, nearly gaunt, his skin as black as spilled ink. “You’re a monster, Hannibal. Some creature I either dreamed up or that was dragged into existence by the devil himself.” 

Hannibal blinks, taking in Will’s growing distress, scenting it like a shark to blood in the water, and steps forward slowly, a slinking jungle cat preparing to pounce. His muscles tense and shift beneath his dress shirt, and Will’s eyes dip against his will to where Hannibal’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the corded musculature of his forearms stirring something in Will he would rather ignore, making him shift restlessly from foot to foot. Being underneath the other man’s regard has always been an uncomfortable experience, though it’s grown familiar over time; comforting in a way Will chooses to ignore.

"I'm no more a monster than the man you've left on my table like some sort of burnt offering to the gods of old. I'm just a man, Will, nothing more. I bleed, I breathe, I am bound by the laws of nature." 

"But not the laws of  _ man," _ Will snaps, but the words hold no heat, his anger leaking from him already like sand through a sieve. He wonders, idly, at why Hannibal’s viability as a mate feels so shocking to him. At the same time, he’s more surprised at the fact the idea doesn’t grate against him, abrasive and corroding. He knows it’s most likely nine parts lingering adrenaline coursing through him and one part sexual compatibility, but he doesn’t  _ care.  _ He’s suddenly so tired of fighting, his hands numb and bloodied and his mind racing to the same hummingbird cadence as his heart. 

Hannibal's smile is slick, bone-white teeth shining in the moonlight spilling through the large windows. Between one blink and the next, though, the image fades, Will’s vision clearing. The antlers Will was so certain he saw angling from his head recede, his eyes now the murky amber of whiskey on rocks, not the sanguine red of fresh blood. His teeth are sharp but not like razors, slightly crooked.  _ Endearing. Handsome.  _

Hannibal is upon him nearly faster than Will's eyes can track, a flurry of movement where once he stood still as a placid lake - Will should have remembered the dangers teeming beneath such places from a childhood made up of them. He grabs Will's wrist, his touch so gentle at first it makes Will's skin burn with it. His adrenaline-chilled fingertips are brought to Hannibal's throat, his pulse beating strong and steady just beneath the surface. 

Will's breath feels explosive, leaving him in a gush of air and spilling out between them, and it’s inevitable, perhaps, that the remnants of Will’s rage seems to spill out along with it. Hannibal's skin still holds the lingering chill of the outside, and as Will presses his fingertips  _ just so _ against the column of his throat he can see the bright white impressions left behind by his touch.

“I’ve never lied to you about exactly who I am, Will. I’ve allowed you to see me; far more honestly and clearly than anyone else has ever been permitted or has ever even come close to seeing.” At Will’s silence Hannibal squeezes the frail bones of his wrist hard enough that they grind together painfully, a hiss pulled from Will’s lips. “You know precisely what I am and yet you’re here, bringing me  _ treats  _ and proclaiming in the same breath you want to see me harmed, that you don’t accept my attempts to make amends. So which is it, Will? Do you want to hurt me or forgive me?”

“Both.” The response is immediate, no hesitation layering his voice this time. He grinds his teeth together to the same rhythm of Hannibal’s fingers wrapped around his wrist; his grip strong, binding. Will wonders what it would be like to have all of that tightly coiled control, all that  _ strength  _ bound, beholden to  _ Will’s  _ whims and desires rather than those of the killer standing before him. He wants to see Hannibal brought to heel, but not to degrade him or to own him, no. He wants to test his resolve, his desire. Like a child testing the boundaries of the rules presented to them, Will finds he wants to  _ push.  _ He wants to see if he can break through the last remaining layers of the person suit Hannibal adorns like armor. 

Hannibal’s eyes flash and Will can read the intrigue on his face as plainly as he can feel the air in his lungs; as easily as he can read any other person. It’s this realization, perhaps more than anything else in the hours and days leading up to this moment - like a countdown to Armageddon - that forces Will to  _ look  _ instead of just to see. 

“I want to see you bound. I want to hurt you. I want to feel your skin bloom with bruises where I claw you open; return the favor to you where you’ve left me open and bleeding. I want to feel your raw, animal strength underneath my palms and know that I am the only person who understands exactly how dangerous you are; how deadly. I want to see you surrender that strength to  _ me.  _ Can you give me that, Hannibal?” Even as he asks, Will can see the images blossoming and fading in his mind, Hannibal littered with his marks and Will with marks of his own to remember the experience by. 

Hannibal is silent for long enough Will starts to wonder if he’d even spoken aloud, or if his boldness had only been in his head. Before he can speak again, though, Hannibal brings his free hand up to Will’s throat, his other hand still firmly gripping Will’s wirst. His fingers wrap around Will’s neck as though they belong there, squeezing gently as they settle against his flesh. His pulse ticks up at the closeness, the intimacy, and they stand just like that for several moments, sharing air and heat and a raw desire strong enough to be nearly palpable in the scant space between them. 

As he opens his mouth to say something, anything to break the spell winding around them like heavy iron chains, Hannibal squeezes harder, his palm resting against Will’s bobbing Adam’s Apple and his fingertips pressing hard enough they make Will gasp on borrowed air, his lungs aching at the mere suggestion of the touch. 

“Yes. I think I can give you that, Will. And quite a lot more besides. Is that to your satisfaction?” 

Will doesn’t need to think about his answer, is embarrassed at how quickly this evening has devolved from his righteous indignation at Hannibal’s fingerprints left all over the worst events of his life and into something far more sinister and overwhelmingly enticing. 

“It’s a start.” 

\---

They make their way upstairs, but before Will can hurry things along to their now natural conclusion, Hannibal is ushering him into the en-suite, Will barely given a moment to take in the large bed taking up the center of the room, or any of the similarly pretentious decor. 

Hannibal sets to cleaning Will’s knuckles, even at Will’s frustrated discontent. He thankfully doesn’t force Will to sit through an entire examination of his body or other wounds, though he mentions vaguely Will should consider stitches if he wants to avoid scarring. Will nearly laughs at the absurdity of the statement; they’ve both already marked one another irreparably. What’s a few more faded silver lines amongst  _ friends?  _

Will doesn’t think Hannibal’s  _ noticeable and slightly intimidating  _ bulge in his pants is caused by a love of murder or of patching Will up, but the longer he’s left to ponder over it, as he watches Hannibal crawl into the center of the bed like a cat who knows he’s gotten the canary  _ and  _ the cream, the more he’s certain it’s in direct reaction to seeing Will’s darkness. 

As though the other man can hear Will’s thoughts ringing rampant and unchecked through his mind, he smiles at him lazily, seemingly uncaring of the position he’s allowing himself to be placed in. Will supposes the fact they both know Hannibal  _ is allowing  _ this and not actually a creature capable of being restrained is enough reason for Hannibal to be so at ease. “I’ve whispered through your chrysalis for months, Will. And even though I could never quite predict you, I am no less fascinated and intrigued by what is beginning to emerge.” 

_ “Hatch, _ you mean, like some dark insect ready to descend and wreak havoc. You’ve filled me up with so much of  _ you  _ that I can’t even hear my own voice in my head anymore.” He catches himself before he starts devolving into too many metaphors and winding pathways of symbolism, reluctant to allow Hannibal to drag him away from the task at hand. “Stay right there.” 

Will only gives himself the brief journey to his car to let his brain fill with static, drowning out any possible second thoughts. He braces against the cold wind to dig between his seats for a key part of this new game they’ve seemingly decided to play tonight, walking briskly back into the open door before closing it with an ominous bang. 

Once he’s returned to Hannibal’s room he’s surprised to notice the other man  _ has  _ remained where Will last left him, the sheets not disturbed in such a way as to indicate he’s moved at all. “Hm. So you  _ can  _ do as you’re told, you just actively choose to disregard the requests of other people?” 

Before Hannibal can reply, Will interrupts with a vague, dismissive wave of his hand, answering his own question. “Difficult to respect your fellow man when you hardly even see them as  _ fellow  _ or as  _ man.  _ They’re pigs to you, aren’t they? Cattle. Sheep. Commodities for your use and nothing more. You elevate them, destroy everything they were and transform them into something  _ other.  _ You  _ consume them entirely.  _ Don’t you? Until nothing of their ugliness remains.” 

Hannibal doesn’t answer, and Will doesn’t honestly expect him to. Hannibal might claim he’s been honest with Will all along, that he’s shown him the truth of himself, but that’s not totally accurate. Hannibal has shown Will shadows at best, smoke and mirrors. More honest than he’s ever been with another human, Will believes him when he says that, but he knows there is more yet remaining beneath the surface. 

He intends to see it all laid out before him by the end of the night. 

“What do you have behind your back, Will?” Hannibal asks, still nonchalant and so unbothered it makes Will’s bones ache with the desire to see him ruffled. 

Will withdraws the cuffs from behind his back, letting them dangle between them on one finger to show them off. “I believe you have the strength of will to stay still of your own volition -  _ if _ you want to,” Will explains as he steps closer to the bed. “I also believe you would remain that way until the exact moment some more intriguing, entertaining idea popped into that devious little head of yours. So, for the sake of my taking what’s owed to me with the least amount of resistance, my friends here will be joining us tonight.”

He’s pleased when Hannibal extends his hands in offering, wasting no time as he closes the remaining distance. Two raw, red tracks split the fragile, olive skin of his wrists, and something hot and visceral clenches in Will’s gut at the sight, pleasant and not all at the same time.

Will traces those marks with his eyes until his sight blurs, and an altogether different sort of scene plays out in his mind. Jack Crawford, stern and imposing as he looks down at a kneeling Hannibal, wrists cuffed in capture. Will shakes his head to clear the scene, the afterimages lingering for several seconds like black dots in his vision. He wonders when he stopped wanting that outcome, stopped craving Jack’s form of justice and started desiring his own. Will runs his fingers idly along the markings, lip curling in an aborted snarl. He hates them, not because they aren’t beautiful, but because they aren’t truly  _ his.  _

He smiles, takes first one wrist and then the other, closing the cold metal around each of them in turn and then pressing them firmly against the mattress above Hannibal’s head. He looks down at the other man, his gaze already surprisingly darker than moments ago. He looks absolutely indecent with his arms stretched out like this, pulling the muscles of his upper shoulders and chest taut beneath his shirt. Hannibal’s cock strains against his charcoal dress pants, and Will licks his lips absently at the sight. 

Will feels reckless, unmoored in a way that’s not altogether unwanted, as he straddles Hannibal’s prone body. He wants to map out the curves and contours of his finely toned muscles, know them as intimately as he knows his own. He ghosts his lips over Hannibal’s, not kissing him, but mimicking the intimacy of such an act with nothing but shared air between them. 

He dips down to follow the angled curve of Hannibal’s jaw, feels out the hollow of his throat with his mouth and then lower still to the tops of his pectorals, far more pronounced than a middle-aged psychiatrist has any reason to be. Will laughs, then, a shocked sound as he pulls back just slightly, eyes roving over Hannibal’s form. 

“They should know you’re a killer, a well-honed predator, from your body alone. What therapist do you know who needs muscles strong enough to carry  _ dead weight?”  _ Hannibal’s eyes glitter dangerously, and it only makes Will feel bolder to have the man’s rapt attention so solely focused on him. 

Will continues his appreciation of Hannibal’s chest, the muscles straining against the fabric of his cream-colored dress shirt. Will has the sudden desire to see it unbuttoned, clinging to the man’s well-muscled shoulders as Will explores. His fingers are moving before he’s even finished the thought, sliding the buttons through the holes until the shirt splits down the middle, fluttering to either side of a smooth, lightly furred chest. 

Will pets idly through the hair there, gaze first enraptured by the way his fingers slip so effortlessly through the pelt before flicking up to Hannibal’s face to watch the man’s expression as they tangle and snag, tugging with a brief, purposeful harshness. Hannibal’s eyes darken further, if that’s at all possible, and the chest rising and falling steadily beneath his hands hitches when one of Will’s nails catches on a nipple.

Hannibal shifts beneath him, and Will is certain it has less to do with him being uncomfortable or restless and more to clue Will into the very obvious  _ enjoyment _ he’s experiencing in this scenario. It’s Will’s turn to lose his breath, his stomach twisting again as the erection straining against Hannibal’s trousers is pressed against him. Will lets out a soft hum and shifts himself, moving up the bed slightly so that when he settles his weight on Hannibal once more it’s no longer the doctor’s  _ thighs _ that he balances on.

“There are still times I find myself wondering what I actually want more, to fight you or to fuck you. I imagine fucking you might feel a bit like fighting, actually,” Will muses out loud, rocking lazily on Hannibal’s lap.

“Do you fantasize about being intimate with me often?”

Will scowls down at the man beneath him, more annoyed with himself than anything else for allowing Hannibal that very unnecessary knowledge. The smugness radiates off him and Will huffs, warning him curtly. “I don’t exactly  _ need _ to have you gagged for our purposes tonight, but don’t think it’s not an option close at hand.”

He’s almost reluctant to withdraw his hands from where they’ve been lazily and carefully mapping out every contour of Hannibal’s delectable torso, but he’s going to need to remove a few layers if the sudden swell of desire within him is going to be slaked. Hannibal’s sharp eyes fall to where Will’s hands have come to work at the fly of his pants, moving with a brusque efficiency that almost counteracts the intimacy of the gesture.

_ Almost. _

“I understand now why you did it, of course,” Will explains as he frees himself. “You thought you saw yourself in me, and so desperately needed it to be true that you didn’t care what shape you had to twist me into, as long as I matched yours.” He’s unsurprised to find he’s already rather hard when he shoves pants and boxers alike down to his knees. “Because if we’re the same,  _ I can’t reject you.” _

Hannibal, to his benefit, hasn’t fallen into the trap of staring at this newly exposed part of Will. Instead, he gazes steadily up into his eyes. “This doesn’t feel like a rejection.”

Will gives a humorless huff. “It’s not. But don’t kid yourself into believing that it’s forgiveness, either.”

“What, then, would you call it?”

“My reparations,” Will purrs as he wraps a hand around the cock that hangs heavy and aching between his thighs. “I’m going to take from you just like you take from everyone else. And you’re going to let me.”

Hannibal contemplates that, eyes containing the same feral gleam of a pleased cat. “You said this was only the start. Do you consider this a beginning for us, dear Will?” The alternative remains unspoken but implied, sitting heavily between them; an ending. Separation.. Even so, those emotions can’t contend with the desire cutting through Will like knives in his guts. 

“I think the time has come for a gag after all. Why don’t you occupy that mouth with something productive for once?” 

Will gives his cock a long, slow stroke from hilt to head, lips twitching into a lazy smirk when the action finally succeeds in drawing Hannibal’s gaze. The doctor parts his lips for the fingers that Will places there with obedient reverence, and the grip on his cock spasms at the first shock of wet, velvet heat that wrap around his digits. “Nice and wet,” he murmurs, mimicking the slide of the fist around his dick to the lazy way his fingers rock slightly into Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal’s eyes are rapturous fire; he gazes up at Will as though he’s never beheld a sight quite like him, and the sentiment echoes through Will’s chest and makes him  _ ache. _ At the first sign of a satisfied smirk twitching the edges of Hannibal’s mouth, Will curls his fingers and pets along his tongue, pushes them back and back until the doctor’s throat spasms at the intrusion.

It would be as glorious as it would be stupid to feed Hannibal his cock, but Will contemplates it all the same, imagines what it might be like to feel the twitching of Hannibal’s tongue against his length, the vice of his throat around him. An intriguing and tempting thought, but not what tonight is about. Will won’t kid himself into believing that the floodgates between them haven’t opened, won’t try to pretend as though this is a one-off occurrence. There will be a time and place for all manner of connections between them - Will won’t sully this first moment based on the impulsive desire to get his dick wet.

“Thank you,” he breathes as his fingers slip free. His gaze holds on the trail of saliva that continues to connect them to Hannibal’s mouth until he pulls too far away and it eventually snaps. Hannibal’s tongue darts out to swipe at the wetness that remains on his lips but, remarkably, he has nothing to say in response.

He spreads his thighs wider as he slips his hand between them, mindful to drag his knuckles along the thick line of Hannibal’s erection still trapped within his pants as he does. But  _ Christ, _ Will can tell already that he’s hung without even seeing him, and something fierce and warm gives a vicious tug in his gut at the thought. There was a time Will thought he couldn’t be more full of Hannibal’s influence, his presence. He’s about to get a hell of a lot fuller, and the thought only hastens his movements, has him pressing two fingers into himself with no preamble in an attempt to move things along.

“Somehow I always knew there was a fine line between wanting to kill you and wanting to fuck you,” Will admits as he rocks down on his fingers, scissoring himself open in a perfunctory preparation for what’s to come. The only reason he doesn’t say fuck it all is the fact that he’s already felt how substantial Hannibal is, and he doesn’t think the infuriating man deserves to bestow more pain upon Will just yet, even if it  _ is _ mostly self-inflicted.

“I  _ want _ to say I’m surprised which side of the line I’ve fallen on, but…” he bites his bottom lip as his fingers slip deeper, cheeks heating despite himself as Hannibal’s eyes bore into his own and darken substantially.

“Perhaps you’ve not fallen quite yet,” Hannibal points out, unsurprisingly unable to keep silent for long. His fingers twitch as though they wish to reach out, but he keeps his arms planted firmly, stubbornly above his head. “You may still be balancing on that particular razor’s edge.”

“I’ll cut myself to ribbons if I stay there too long,” Will mumbles, though it comes out as more of a grunt as he forces his fingers wide once more.

“Then fall, if you think it to be the least painful of your options.”

Will gives a humorless huff, followed by a low hiss as he pulls his fingers away. “I don’t believe a painless scenario exists, where you’re concerned.”

“I said  _ least _ painful,” Hannibal repeats blithely.

“Lube?”

Hannibal gives a twitch of his head in the direction of the nightstand on the left side of the bed, and Will reaches over without hesitation, just barely able to tug the drawer open and dig inside without having to unseat himself from his position straddling Hannibal’s hot thighs. He tosses the bottle to the side without even looking at it, eyes honing in on Hannibal when his elbow brushes the other man’s cock and pulls another rush of air from him. 

Will’s eyes glint with mischief, and he bites into his bottom lip to keep himself from laughing aloud. It’s truly obscene how distended Hannibal’s dress slacks are, his cock an obvious feature. Will reaches forward, teasing just his fingertips across the hard line, following the ridge down and back behind where his balls sit nestled in the fabric. He does it again, just to hear the way Hannibal’s breath stutters in his chest at the too-gentle touches. 

“Will -” Hannibal’s eyes are predator-dark, a shark that’s scented blood in the water, his lips curled back in a snarl that exposes the pearlescent sheen of his sharp teeth. Will knows Hannibal is an attractive man, but like this, something primal and clawing rips at his insides, and he has to close his eyes against the onslaught of his arousal. Hannibal is breathtaking, the seams of his person-suit starting to fray and veneer to crack beneath Will’s ghosting, teasing hands. He feels powerful, but more than that, he feels  _ needy.  _

“Consider me  _ curious,  _ Doctor Lecter. I wonder exactly how sturdy your resolve is. How much you’d grant me before snapping.” 

Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to reply. “I’d grant you anything, Will. My life. My freedom. To keep you here, in my bed, I’d bring down the moon and all the stars. Give you a sea of blood, and an eternally full belly.” 

Will has no words, so he doesn’t try to speak, instead trailing his fingers back and forth again, just tracing along the outline of Hannibal’s bulge, and he licks his lips thoughtlessly only to hear Hannibal’s breath rattle in his lungs. This is the most unhinged he’s ever seen the other man, usually so poised and collected but now he’s an animal ready to strike, a bowstring drawn taut. 

Will grows bolder, replacing his fingertips with his entire palm, cupping Hannibal’s erection where it’s straining so thickly against the fabric of his pants that he can see a stain forming to the side of the button. On a whim he decides to slip the button through, releasing some of the tension. 

“You’re enjoying this.” Hannibal accuses, but he sounds breathless rather than truly accusatory, as though he can’t yet bring himself to believe Will is here and real against him. Honestly, Will understands the sensation, his own brain still playing catch up to the arousal burning through him like a blaze. He feels like he’ll burn up if he doesn’t keep touching Hannibal, so he  _ does,  _ the heel of his palm pressing firmly against Hannibal’s cock, only the thin barrier of his dress pants and underwear to separate them. 

“Yes.” Will finally replies, shifting across Hannibal’s thighs to balance himself, his mind a cacophony of blended desires. 

Hannibal feels warm and alive beneath him, and Will wants  _ more.  _ He pinches the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, sliding it down slowly, unintentionally teasing and incensing them both with the delay. 

The sound of his zipper is obscene in the silence that falls between them, and Will’s throat swells with an uncomfortable lump as he watches Hannibal’s chest hitch at the first contact, his mouth going dry and then immediately watering as he frees the rock hard and leaking cock he finds there.

It’s more impressive than he’d even imagined since the first moment he saw it straining to escape its confines, and Will begrudgingly accepts the fact that a substantial portion of Hannibal’s cockiness is, in fact, due to his cock. Will imagines he’d be smug as all Hell too, if he were walking around everyday hung like a horse in a thousand dollar suit.

The tip of Hannibal’s cock glistens, and Will is far too weak and Hannibal’s body far too tempting to ignore it. He leans down, nearly against his own volition, and licks a broad swipe across the head, both of them shivering in tandem at the sensation. Will can feel Hannibal’s body tense beneath him, and when he looks up his body at his bound wrists he sees them flex against the metal, the veins along his forearms and hands showing with the tension. 

Will feels wild with desire, the pre-come on his tongue and slicking his teeth is like an aphrodisiac, and he is insatiable. He licks again, more firmly this time, and uses his hand to fully expose Hannibal’s cockhead, pulling his foreskin back so he can wrap his lips around the flushed head, sucking nearly desperately. 

He knows if Hannibal’s hands were free they’d be tangled in his hair, probably trying to control the situation; hold Will down, and that only seems to encourage him further. He slides in a smooth glide down Hannibal’s cock, taking him all the way into his throat until his gag reflex has him fluttering around his shaft. 

The groan coming from above him is enough to have Will’s cock stirring against his own thigh, smearing pre-come between their bodies. Suddenly, Will has the nearly insatiable desire to feel their chests pressed together; wants to experience the soft hair on Hannibal’s torso shifting against his own smoother body. But he doesn’t remove his shirt, not yet, using it as one last barrier between them. He’s not sure he’s ready to throw it all out the window quite yet. 

He licks a few parting licks against Hannibal’s shaft, getting him slick, but not nearly slick enough for what Will most wants next, and then he lifts back up on his haunches to look down at the flushed form beneath him, reaching over to find the lube and wrap his fingers around it.

Hannibal’s lubricant is in a ludicrously extravagant glass jar with no external markings to indicate the contents what-so-ever, and for a moment Will considers simply opting for another glob of saliva to do the job on mere principle, a part of him itching to take every luxury Hannibal might usually be afforded out of this scenario.

Instead, he opens it, teasing Hannibal as he does. “Everything in your life is so purposefully and meticulously orchestrated, isn’t it? I imagine if I cared to search for condoms in your drawer I’d find something in a sleek, velvet black packaging with gold imprints or something, hm? Not that we’ll be needing anything like that, I want to  _ feel you  _ inside me.” 

Hannibal’s head tilts to the side, that curious predator look he often gets, and then he smiles, a little too wide, teeth gleaming again in a way Will knows he should be reacting to with the  _ flight  _ aspect of fight or flight, but it only makes him work faster to get his fingers wet. “You want to know it’s  _ your _ body bringing me pleasure when I flood you with my release. Want to feel the consequences of your actions, the warm rawness of my desire.” 

Will doesn’t respond, but he knows the way his eyes most likely darken at the words is more than response enough. Fingers thoroughly wetted, he brings them back to his hole and presses inside, coating himself with the fluid before returning for more and slathering Hannibal’s cock with it. He’s massive, and Will is going to need all the help he can get.

“You’re not in control here, Hannibal. I think it’s time I took my own pleasure, and by my own hands. I’ve grown tired of your fingerprints left all over some of the worst moments of my life.” 

Will grabs Hannibal’s cock at the root, lifting himself higher on his knees to guide him to his rim. He sinks down onto Hannibal, bracing himself on his chest with one hand and removing his hand from where it was wrapped around the other man to reach up and clasp his bound wrists. He lets his thumb trail across one of the scars again, eyes zeroing in on the fresh, raw-pinkness of them, still so soon after the event.

"Not all of them awful, surely. Tell me, Will," Hannibal's voice is slightly strained and breathless, but no less curious for it as he looks up at Will, spread out beneath him like both a supplicant and an olden god who effortlessly demands worship simply through his existence. "How did it feel to kill me?"

Will doesn’t even need to consider before he answers, the words dripping from his tongue with an immediacy he feels palpably throughout his entire body. "It felt good.  _ Righteous. _ And then...it just felt lonely." It’s far more honest than he would prefer, his voice nearly breaking at the end when he remembers how hollowed-out he’d felt in the endless seconds between when he’d heard Matthew’s attack had been successful, when he’d known the destruction he’d wrought through an undeserving  _ proxy, _ and the subsequent knowledge that Hannibal had been saved by  _ Jack.  _

It might be difficult, but Will suddenly wants more than anything to see Matthew bleed for what he’s done, he wants to see him  _ hurt  _ as Will had hurt. Wants to cut him how he cut Hannibal and watch the life drain from him, nothing but a crimson stain caked into the drain to show he’d ever existed at all.

Will finds himself fully seated on Hannibal’s hips, grinding himself in lazy motions back and forth as Hannibal remains motionless, though his body is a riot of movement if one knows how to look at a monster. His muscles are tightly coiled, but his limbs are loose; always prepared for an attack. Will wants it, wants Hannibal’s darkness, his aggression. He wants to see the empty blackness that sits at the center of Hannibal’s chest, and wants to fill it with himself until they both burst from it. He wants a million other things besides, but for now, at least, having Hannibal’s predatory nature seems in his grasp. 

“You felt regret when you thought your plan had been successful.” It’s more a statement than a clarifying question, and Will doesn’t deign to answer it, more focused on drawing another hitched breath from Hannibal’s chest with nothing but a roll of his hips. “You realized in that moment what you had been denying to even yourself for so long - you want me only for yourself, even if only in death.”

Will narrows his eyes at the infuriatingly correct deduction, doubles the pace of his hips; if Hannibal is coherent enough for an attempt at psychoanalyzing him, he’s  _ clearly _ doing something wrong. “You’re one to talk, aren’t you? You steal away my sanity, Take Abigail. Alienate me from anyone that could be potentially deemed as an ally. You don’t want anything in my life that isn’t you.”

He pulls himself nearly all the way off Hannibal’s cock and then slams back down, driving the breath from his own lungs as well as Hannibal’s as he taunts him. He stills completely and leans low, the fingers of both hands clenching tightly in the ample hair that covers Hannibal’s chest. “But still, even after everything, you can’t make your move, can you? The great predator playing possum just because I asked you nicely?” Will gives a humorless huff and dips his face closer still, the farce of a kiss between them as lips curled into a half-smirk murmur against Hannibal’s. “If you  _ really  _ wanted me so badly, you’d allow nothing to hold you back.”

Will doesn’t realize the sharp cracking sound he hears is the link between the cuffs breaking in half until he’s suddenly on his stomach and a palm is pushing insistently into the middle of his back, forcing him into a deeper arch, his ass in the air and his chest pressed firmly to the mattress beneath him. 

“Hannibal -” he starts, tentative and unsure. Hannibal growls in response, and then Will hears the sound of Hannibal’s pants being pushed further down his thighs, and his own shirt is being ripped at the seams and tossed to the side like it’s nothing. 

“You should know not to tempt me, dear Will.” Hannibal breathes against the side of Will’s face, and then he’s slamming home, hitting Will’s prostate  _ immediately  _ and with a precision he would honestly expect from the doctor.

_ “Fuck,” _ Will gasps, and it only seems to encourage Hannibal to fuck him  _ harder.  _ His cock feels even larger like this, nearly obscene where it splits him open. He imagines if he could slip a hand beneath him he’d feel it in his lower abdomen, and that causes a shiver to spill down his spine. 

“Such language, darling. You know my views on the  _ rude.”  _ Knowing what he knows of Hannibal it should sound like a threat, should feel dangerous, but it only leaves Will breathless with  _ want.  _

“Harder.” Will means the word to sound like a demand, but he knows he falls short, sounding more like a breathless plea. 

“Such a needy thing now that I have you spread out in my bed, open and wanton for me. Are you usually such a selfish lover, Will? Or is that another piece of yourself you reserve only for me?” 

Will doesn’t reply and Hannibal, infuriatingly,  _ slows  _ his pace rather than submit to Will’s demand, and instead of fucking him harder, faster, he instead bends low over him until his exposed chest is pressed flush to Will’s sweaty, flushed back, and  _ bites him.  _ Will gasps as Hannibal’s teeth close around the skin of his upper shoulder, the sound rattling harshly through his teeth when those same teeth sink in deep enough to draw blood. 

Even in his blood-drenched fervor, Hannibal’s lust has not overwhelmed him enough to cave to Will’s pleas, and he realizes if he wants what he needs he’ll need to ask for it. Or, at the very least, answer Hannibal’s inquiry. 

“It’s only you, I’m only myself when I’m with you.” Will gasps out, lungs aching with need. 

When he turns his head to the side in order to try and draw a ragged breath, he sees Hannibal’s wrists again, bright red and stained with blood trailing down them in rivulets from the marks he’s cut into them by breaking through the handcuffs. It makes pleasure pulse deeply in Will’s belly, and he nearly whimpers at the sensation, overwhelmed and intoxicated on the combined metallic scent of their blood staining the air. 

Hannibal stays pressed flush against him, his hips rocking lazily against Will’s ass as teeth withdraw and a tongue emerges to soothe the sting in his shoulder. Will’s attempts at pushing back into Hannibal, trying to spur their movement into something more energetic, are met with the heavy weight of Hannibal collapsing on him even further. The only movement he’s truly allowed is with his upper body, and Will can find nothing else to do with his hands other than grip desperately at the sheets beneath him.

Hannibal finally hums in appreciation of Will’s openness, leaning down again to lick filthy lines along Will’s bleeding shoulder and against his sweaty, curl-matted nape. “I know, darling boy. Such a cunning creature you are, yet so malleable. So willing to accommodate me, let me carve out a space inside you that no one else can ever fill.” 

Will tips his head to the side, pleased to find he can reach the arms that cage him in at either side, and licks a slow, deliberate swipe along the length of Hannibal’s weeping wound. It’s a heady thing, to know that Will has left his mark on Hannibal -- still indirectly, but not as much as his murder by proxy. The sharp metal of the cuffs dug in and tore tender flesh as Hannibal rent himself free of his bindings, and all because of  _ Will. _

What might it feel like to mark him in earnest? It was a pleasure Hannibal afforded himself, after all, and Hannibal was, if nothing else, incredibly self-indulgent.

Will’s mind nearly short-circuits at the notion of inflicting a true mark of his own upon the untouchable man, allows himself no further thought as he angles his face higher up Hannibal’s corded forearm and allows his teeth to sink in unfettered.

Copper bursts across his tongue as Hannibal expels the hiss of a breath directly into Will’s ear; a growl laces the tail-end of the sound, and Hannibal moves his free hand to grip Will’s shoulder tightly as his hips are urged into a frantic pace. He pulls out of Will and snaps into him as though each thrust might be his last, still expertly angled to torment Will’s prostate every other second. He does not move the arm that still has Will’s teeth worrying his claim into willing flesh.

“You marked me long before tonight,” Hannibal admits, his voice gravelly and breathless against Will’s ear.

Will, having not expected the monster above him to form such complicated speech given their current occupation, fills the silence between them with only the sound of his breathless gasps for several seconds before his mind finally turns over the meaning of the statement and his mouth catches up, releasing the torn skin from his teeth with another breathless gasp. “When?”

“The day you decided to come out and play and sent me Matthew Brown. Beverly Katz.”

Will expels his breath in an angry huff and nips sharply at the sluggishly bleeding wound still in mouth’s reach. Hannibal gives his own humorless huff as he pounds into Will, his lips dipping closer still until they brush against the shell of Will’s ear with every word.

“When you sat in my office and admitted that you wanted to have killed Stammets. That you enjoyed killing Hobbs.”

Will is sure he has a retort for that, but before he can spit it out, Hannibal continues.

“The moment I met you, bristling with indignation and yearning to be seen in Jack Crawford’s office. I see you, Will. I always have. I always will.”

Will, possessing absolutely no way to appropriately respond to such a declaration, lathes his tongue across the jagged marks his teeth left in Hannibal’s forearm.

“I know my sentimentality leaves much to be desired,” he admits, and it’s the closest to sheepish Hannibal has ever sounded. “You’ll have to forgive me my inexperience.”

Will, perhaps sensing the impending earth-shattering revelation, tightens his grip on the sheets with his left hand and shifts his right up until his fingers tangle with Hannibal’s.

“...I love you, Will,” Hannibal breathes against him, and Will is surprised to detect hesitancy in his tone, even as his hips retain their confident pace and he spears into him, drilling into his prostate once more. “Always have,” he admits as another wave of white sparks burst behind Will’s clenched eyes. “Always will,” he swears, his voice low and horrendously,  _ painfully, _ truthful.

Will turns his head away until his face is smothered in the pillow beneath him and lets out a ragged sob as pleasure seizes in his gut and unspools warmly throughout his body. He can feel his cock twitching its release, trapped against the mattress beneath him, jostled with each jarring thrust into him, and thinks the sound his muffled mouth forms might be something close to a name.

Hannibal presses deep one final time, pausing pressed flush against Will at every point of possible contact, and then his own cock is pulsing; Will can feel it in his very depths, releasing a hot flood of passionate, poisonous adoration. He knows, even in the haze of his own orgasm, that this is the one marking of Hannibal that will inevitably stick. He can never come back from this, never pretend it didn’t happen or feign that it didn’t irreparably change him in some way.

He wonders when he got to the point where he was actually okay with that particular conclusion. 

“Jack will never stop.” As answering words to a declaration of love, spat out in the still hazy aftermath of release, they leave much to be desired. They are, however, as much truth as Will is comfortable imparting to Hannibal in the moment. “We have to go.”

Hannibal had long since stilled over Will’s prone form, heavy and relaxed against his back from his own orgasm; a contented house cat. He doesn’t withdraw or even stiffen at the announcement, merely finds the mark his teeth had carved into Will in the heat of their passions and presses his lips to it chastely. “Is it  _ we, _ then? Surely you can write off Randall Tier’s untimely demise as justifiable self-defense.”

“But it wasn’t self-defense.” It doesn’t feel like an admission of guilt, when he says the words to Hannibal. “And while running is a form of self-preservation, it isn’t to protect myself from Jack.”

Will wiggles beneath Hannibal and twitches his shoulder until the other man takes the hint and reluctantly rolls off of him. Will turns onto his side to face his monster without hesitation. “I’m sure I could exist without you in my life. If you ran, and I stayed, I would survive.”

He swallows around the lump in his throat as Hannibal’s keen eyes observe him, amber frozen in stasis but no less warm for it. “But food would just be something I ate because I had to. And music would just be notes composed in some form of order. ...The bodies Jack would point me toward would just be that: bodies, dead and lifeless. No amount of manipulation would make them the art they could be, without the Ripper at hand.”

Hannibal’s gaze softens at Will’s words, his hand raising between them to brush away the curls that have matted to his sweaty forehead.

The gesture is perhaps not as unexpected as one might think after such a violent and primal display, but Will tenses beneath it, just for a moment. His muscles relax nearly immediately, and he’s relieved to see Hannibal doesn’t judge him for it, his look still placid and painfully fond. 

Will shifts to look at him more directly, wincing when the movement pulls at sore muscles and the raw wound on his shoulder. Hannibal is clearly unbelievably pleased to see Will in such a state, but Will ignores the smugness in favor of a bright burst of his own honesty. 

“I can go on without you. But I don’t  _ want _ to.”

"The hollow ticking which has reverberated through the back of Will's skull like a clock counting down towards judgement day ever since he'd first pieced it all together and _seen_ Hannibal for what he truly is stops, suddenly, an aria picking up in its place as thin lips tug up into what is essentially a _smile_ for Hannibal Lecter. His eyes shine with adoration as he looks at Will, his fondness unabashed and so obvious, even as Will looks back over all the time they've known one another. Will feels like his own breath has been stolen away for a moment of suspended silence, but then he can _breathe again_ when the Ripper simply responds, "Then you needn't."

**Author's Note:**

> We are eternally grateful as always for your support and appreciation! Come hang out with us on Twitter at @bellaraiwrites for all sorts of fun stuff and things!


End file.
